Saturday, February 05
Read fifty books in a year? No problem!
The writing about them later is more of a challenge, but I'm sure I'll manage. Thanks to Gord for pointing this out to me.
I'm not even going to count the books I read in January, partly because I can't remember which I read when, partly because I don't want to write up the backlog, but mostly because it would put me halfway through the challenge already. And that's no fun.
But all books are gonna have to wait a bit because, for ineffable muse reasons, my muse has sideswiped me. For the past few months I've been piddling away at The Novel. For the past month I've been working in a steady but uninspired way at The Novel, putting in a page, two pages, no pages a day. Now, all the sudden, I'm writing four, six, eight pages a day, nonstop. Instead of having to glue my butt to the chair and forece myself to write I can't wait to get in front of that computer. I'm drifting through work, I barely spend time on the 'net; whatever else I'm doing, I want to be writing, and in my head, I am.
It's not the first time this has happened to me. It's not even the most inconvenient (the most inconvenient award goes to the sudden PERFECT scene which I HAD to write that popped into my head five minutes into an exam on feeding dairy cattle. A three hour exam. Pen in hand, paper in front of me, and I couldn't write. I flunked, of course.) But it's always a bit startling. And I have obligations, dammit, things besides writing which I must get done. Like working. Like cleaning the kitchen so my brother doesn't have to do it all. Like getting the broken glass out of the oven (don't ask). Like feeding myself.
Not that I'm complaining. I hope the fugue lasts. I just hope I don't starve or irreplacably damage any relationships in the meantime.
The writing about them later is more of a challenge, but I'm sure I'll manage. Thanks to Gord for pointing this out to me.
I'm not even going to count the books I read in January, partly because I can't remember which I read when, partly because I don't want to write up the backlog, but mostly because it would put me halfway through the challenge already. And that's no fun.
But all books are gonna have to wait a bit because, for ineffable muse reasons, my muse has sideswiped me. For the past few months I've been piddling away at The Novel. For the past month I've been working in a steady but uninspired way at The Novel, putting in a page, two pages, no pages a day. Now, all the sudden, I'm writing four, six, eight pages a day, nonstop. Instead of having to glue my butt to the chair and forece myself to write I can't wait to get in front of that computer. I'm drifting through work, I barely spend time on the 'net; whatever else I'm doing, I want to be writing, and in my head, I am.
It's not the first time this has happened to me. It's not even the most inconvenient (the most inconvenient award goes to the sudden PERFECT scene which I HAD to write that popped into my head five minutes into an exam on feeding dairy cattle. A three hour exam. Pen in hand, paper in front of me, and I couldn't write. I flunked, of course.) But it's always a bit startling. And I have obligations, dammit, things besides writing which I must get done. Like working. Like cleaning the kitchen so my brother doesn't have to do it all. Like getting the broken glass out of the oven (don't ask). Like feeding myself.
Not that I'm complaining. I hope the fugue lasts. I just hope I don't starve or irreplacably damage any relationships in the meantime.
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